


i'll be seeing you

by nymphe



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymphe/pseuds/nymphe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No fucking way," Derek says, because he'd okayed Boyd's bringing in a tree - had even helped him drag it in and set it up - and Scott's Secret Santa gift exchange, what the fuck ever, and he'd okayed Isaac's executive decision for a pack dinner and Christmas-themed movie night, and, shit, he'd even okayed Stiles' flamboyant, chaotic mess of glittering Christmas decorations strewn over every table, stairway banner, window, and doorway in his loft,  - but Erica's plastic sprig of fucking mistletoe is definitely where he's drawing the line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll be seeing you

**Author's Note:**

> in which erica and boyd are not dead, because it's christmas, and also because erica and boyd being dead is some bullshit and noT to be believed, erica and lydia are totally best friends and mistresses of the night who intend to make their idiot packmates realize they're in love with each other, there is mistletoe, stiles being drunk and adorable, derek being a lil dramatic, and probably they're soulmates. written at four am, entirely unplanned, and i don't use a beta, so if there are typos, pardone moi.

"No fucking way," Derek says, because he'd okayed Boyd's bringing in a tree - had even helped him drag it in and set it up - and Scott's Secret Santa gift exchange, what the fuck ever, and he'd okayed Isaac's executive decision for a pack dinner and Christmas-themed movie night, and, shit, he'd even okayed Stiles' flamboyant, chaotic mess of glittering Christmas decorations strewn over every table, stairway banner, window, and doorway in his loft,  - but Erica's plastic sprig of fucking mistletoe is definitely where he's drawing the line. There are at least sixteen reasons he can think of for Erica's mistletoe, and they all involve varying forms of intimidation tactics and not-subtle threats against his person.

"Seventeen, and _please_ , Derek, at least eleven of them are blackmail and revenge. There are some smells you can't unsmell, and all of them are what you and Stiles smell like around each other - I'd call it pathetic, but we all know what sexually frustrated men do for me." Erica calmly reaches to adjust the mistletoe, pointedly catching Derek's gaze as she does so.

Derek starts to growl, but Stiles comes stumbling and laughing into the kitchen to refill his eggnog, and the second Stiles steps under the threshold, Erica cups his chin in her palm and twists his head around to plant a solid, red-lipped kiss to his cheek.

"Um," Stiles says, pink-cheeked and flustered and more than a little drunk; and speechless, because Stiles goes all soft and giggling and _quiet_ when he's drunk, and Derek may have accidentally told Erica he thought Stiles was cute _once_ , and he may also have _severely_ underestimated Erica's devotion to fixing his love life. He's starting to regret the whole _starting a pack of teenage werewolves_ thing. He's learning to own up to his mistakes.

"Tradition, babe, look up," Erica says, and tilts Stiles' chin up so he can roll his eyes to the door frame, and she sounds entirely too pleased with herself as she watches him stare at the mistletoe and attempt to scrub the lipstick off of his cheek. With the woolen sleeve of the sweater Mrs. McCall knitted him. Derek's stubble would probably be more effective. Beards are abrasive. Like steel wool. "Next time I'm going for your pretty little mouth, cutie."

She glides around Stiles on her way to the living room, but takes a second to wink at Derek from over Stiles' shoulder. Derek graciously forgives her her mistake of making Stiles uncomfortable. 

Stiles, who still hasn't stepped fully into the kitchen or back into the living room, who's looking all out of sorts, lingering under the mistletoe, scrubbing his cheek like he expects it to go away.

Derek sighs, out of annoyance or fondness, or any one of another dozen jumbled emotions Stiles evokes in him. "All you're doing is smearing it, Stiles. I'll get you a soapy washcloth." And, in a momentary lapse of reason caused by visions of marking all of Stiles' soft, boyish skin up with his stubble, somehow manages to forget about the mistletoe that Stiles is still standing under. A fact which he abruptly remembers when he brushes against Stiles in the doorway on his way to the bathroom where the washcloths are.

He could just as easily feign ignorance and continue to the bathroom, but -

"Uh-uh, boys," Lydia's tittering, from where she and Erica have apparently decided to ambush them. "Tradition's tradition, Derek. Give us a kiss."

"No," Erica purrs, "give us a _show_."

Stiles squeaks and stiffens where he's standing, heart skittering like a frightened rabbit and cheeks flushed from a truly delicious mix of humiliation and arousal and rum. Derek simultaneously wants to kiss him until Stiles is stupid with it and shield him from these terrible manipulative sorceresses he, for some reason, accepted as his packmates. He flashes his eyes at them to soothe his wolf a little, and is only a little bit terrified that he'd probably shed a packmate's blood for upsetting Stiles. He is decidedly not going to think about what that might mean, in terms of feelings, and life mates, and things he has been aggressively avoiding thinking about since his last spectacular failure of a relationship.

Stiles has turned in the doorway, so he's still standing under the mistletoe, but is facing Derek. He has to lean back against the frame to stop himself from swaying, and Derek has a brief moral dilemma about his being probably in love with the drunk, underage son of a Sheriff. He keeps it brief, because he's got plenty of other crises of conscience he has to pay equal amounts of attention to, mostly involving misplaced guilt for his family's death - and also, because being in love with Stiles seems less like a moral dilemma, and more something that he can't help. It actually - it feels - right, good.

"You don't have to kiss me, Derek," Stiles says, slurred a little, but not so much Derek's afraid he'd be taking advantage by kissing him, "not if you don't want to." He does want to - desperately, aggressively, reverently. Stiles' lips are pouty and pink and plush, wet from having been licking them all night. Stiles looks so - so warm, and content. He's still a little embarrassed, and anxious, Derek can tell from the beat of his heart, but Derek watches Stiles nervously lick his lips, hears a little uptick in Stiles' heartbeat. He smells like - under the spice of eggnog and the sweetness of sugar cookie, he smells like everything Derek imagines _home_ and _family_ should smell like - a little earthy, musky, like running on the preserve, but fresher, like the clean spring water in the creek two miles into the woods, with warm, sweet undertones, cinnamon, ginger, clove. He smells like everything Derek's ever wanted, the occasions when he's allowed himself to actually think about what he'd enjoy having in the future.

"I'm going to kiss you. If that's okay."

Stiles' breath hitches, and, "Yeah, Der, it's - "

Stiles breathes out a happy little sigh against his mouth, when Derek finally kisses him. The angle's awkward at first, because Stiles is tipsy and off-balance, and it's a little messy because Stiles gets a little overzealous and Derek has to slow him down with a hand wrapped around the nape of his neck. The tip of his nose is cold against Derek's cheek, and Stiles' sweater tickles his neck where Stiles has tangled a hand in his hair, is scratchy against his hand where he's wrapped it around Stiles' waist. But Stiles tastes just like he'd smelled, he's sure the pack can smell him emanating warmth and happiness and affection, and if his family were alive, were here, he thinks they might start throwing out words like _mate_ and _welcome_ , and Derek hopes he'll be allowed to have this.

Derek kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, until when he pulls back, Stiles is breathless and blinking big glassy doe-eyes up at him, mouth gone slack.

"God, that's disgusting," Erica says, "is this - are they - _glowing_? Did I just accidentally attend a wedding? Lydia, I think my tooth is falling out."

Lydia laughs, breathlessly.

"Hey," Scott calls from the couch, "is Stiles making more cookies? It smells like cinnamon and sugar in here."

Stiles is grinning, and "Kiss me again?", and Derek drags him out from under the mistletoe, and kisses him again, and plans to keep this.


End file.
